Текст книги "The Naked Edge"

Автор книги: David Morrell

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

^{Carl held up a battered knapsack that looked as if it had been tied to a truck and dragged along a dirt road for ten miles. The group studied it, the only time anyone would ever pay attention to the nondescript object.}

^{"Each of these knapsacks has a smoke canister in it. You're going to mix with the crowd. There'll be so many protestors, thousands of them, that no one'll pay attention to you. Each knapsack has a number. Go over to the map on the wall, and find your number on it. Convention Center Boulevard. Fulton Street. Commerce Street. Poydras Street. Along Riverwalk. Outside Harrah's Casino. Up past LaFayette Square. Duncan Plaza. The City Hall. Each street has one of your numbers. That's where you'll place yourself. And when the riot gets going, when they start torching cars and smashing windows and throwing Molotov cocktails, when the police march in to stop the festivities, you're going to find a place to hide your knapsack. At eleven hundred hours on those expensive, synchronized, Navy SEAL watches you were given, you'll tug this cord here and trigger your smoke canister.}

^{"Wait until the smoke's thick enough. With all these knapsacks evenly spaced, there'll be plenty. As soon as the cops can't see you, draw your gun and rapid fire above everybody's head. We don't want to kill anybody. Just scare them. Sixty guns going off. It'll sound like a war. But nobody'll be able to see you to know you're doing the shooting. The rioters'll think the cops are doing it. The cops'll think it's the rioters. There'll be screaming and yelling and stampeding.}

^{"Use all your ammo. Drop your piece. Make sure you've got these stick-on latex pads on your finger tips so you don't leave prints, and make sure you wore gloves when you loaded the magazines so there won't be any prints on the ejected cartridges. Then get out of there. Rendezvous two days from now at the campground I told you about near Galveston, Texas. We'll celebrate and plan the next mission.}

^{"Your part in all this shouldn't take more than a minute, but it requires steady nerves. That's why you've been training. A can-do attitude. Dependability. Resolve. Control. A cool head. That's the secret to getting along in life, gentlemen. You're not punks anymore. Prove it. Show me how professionals behave. But being a professional also means knowing your limitations. If there's anybody here who doesn't think he's ready, who needs more training, tell me now, and you can walk away with no hard feelings."}

^{About a dozen–the least sociopathic–looked hesitant, but no one raised a hand.}

^{"Good," Bowie said. "Then get your cash and your knapsack. Find your place on the map. Make sure your weapon's ready. Get plenty to eat and a good night's sleep. I'll talk to you tomorrow morning."}

^{As Carl stepped from the podium, the men formed a line in front of Raoul, who distributed the money.}

^{"Mr. Culloden," Carl said to one of the men, "when you first came to us, you looked soft and pale from solitary confinement. You were puffy from lack of exercise and the starchy crap the prison called food. Now you're solid. You've got a healthy glow. You ought to be paying me for treating you to a spa."}

^{Culloden chuckled. "Right, Mr. Bowie, but if it's all the same to you, I'll keep the cash."}

^{Carl continued his banter, making the men grin and feel part of a cherished team. Sometimes he shook hands or gave a man a good-natured slap on the back. But as he scanned the line, concealing his calculated assessment, he noticed that a half-dozen men hung back.}

^{They waited while the majority pocketed their money and drifted back to cleaning guns, playing video games, watching action movies, and eating the best buffet in New Orleans.}

^{"Mr. Bowie," one of them said.}

^{Knowing where this was headed, Carl replied, "Yes?"}

^{"We, uh . . . We've been wondering . . ."}

^{Another man said, "Did you mean it that, if we didn't think we were up to this, we didn't have to do it?"}

^{"This isn't a dictatorship, Mr. Todd. I believe that the best team is one that's totally voluntary."}

^{"Then . . . ," another man said.}

^{"Yes, Mr. Weaver?"}

^{"I think I've got myself in enough trouble for one lifetime. I don't need any more."}

^{"It's not as if you're going to kill anybody," Carl said. "All you need to do is activate the smoke canister and shoot into the air."}

^{"I guess I was more comfortable holding up gas stations, but I don't even want to do that now."}

^{"Totally voluntary," Carl said. "I won't pretend I'm not disappointed. A lot of effort went into training you. But if you can't commit to the mission, you're doing everybody a favor by admitting it. You're sure you won't change your mind?"}

^{They didn't respond.}

^{"Okay then." Carl sighed. "Naturally, you won't get next month's wages. And naturally, you can't stay with the team any longer. But I can't let you stay in New Orleans, either. If you get drunk, you might stagger into some bar in the French Quarter and say more than you should."}

^{"We wouldn't do that, Mr. Bowie. You know you can count on us."}

^{"All the same, Mr. Weaver, you have an alcohol problem that made you do things that put you in prison. You also, Mr. Todd. I'll arrange for the six of you to stay in a motel for a couple of days. Outside town. Stock it with booze. Get take-in food. I don't want you out in public."}

^{"No, sir."}

^{"Two days from now, you can leave the motel, and it won't matter what you tell anybody after that."}

^{Todd looked relieved. "Thanks, Mr. Bowie."}

^{Bowie told Raoul, "Bring the van."}

^{Ten minutes later, Raoul was driving them through dense traffic west on Interstate 10. The setting sun hurt his eyes. As they left the city, he said, "Mr. Bowie says the motel can't be fancy. Nothing where you need to show a credit card and leave a trail. You've got plenty of cash you haven't been able to spend. Use it. That place'll do." He pointed toward something called the Escort Inn.}

^{"As long as it's near a liquor store," Todd said. "I haven't had a drink since an hour after I got out of prison. Then Bowie convinced me to go to his damned camp, and that was the end of that."}

^{"Hey," Weaver said. "There's a liquor store across the street."}

^{They stocked up with beer, bourbon, scotch, vodka, gin, soft drinks, potato chips, onion dip, beef jerky, and a deck of cards, then drove to a parking lot at the side of the motel.}

^{"I'll wait here while you register," Raoul said. "In case the mission turns to merde , you don't want to be seen with me."}

^{"Right. Good idea. We don't want to be linked to what goes on in town."}

^{"Ask for rooms in back. Less chance of anybody noticing me park back there while you unload this stuff."}

^{"Yeah, we'll tell the clerk we want to be away from the noise of traffic."}

^{Five minutes later, the six men returned from the motel's lobby. Raoul drove them to their rooms in back.}

^{"Ground floor," Todd said proudly. "We won't be seen carrying all this stuff up the stairs."}

^{Raoul watched them take the booze and food into one of the rooms. "Everybody set?" he asked from the doorway. "Need anything more?"}

^{"A couple of hookers," Todd said, smirking.}

^{"Mr. Bowie doesn't want you talking to anybody," Raoul warned.}

^{"Yeah, okay, don't get bent out of shape. I was just making a joke."}

^{One of the men twisted the cap off a Jim Beam bottle. Another popped the tab on a Budweiser can while a third turned on the television.}

^{"See if they get the History Channel," Weaver said. "Maybe they'll have a program about machine guns or something else that's neat."}

^{"Gotta use the bathroom," Raoul said.}

^{He went in, closed the door, urinated, and flushed the toilet. He pulled two Beretta fifteen-round handguns from under his baggy shirt. He attached sound suppressors that he took from pouches on his belt. When he opened the door, he heard a TV announcer describing the invention of the AK-47 assault rifle. Stepping from the bathroom, he emptied both pistols into the six men. The suppressors made sounds as if a pillow fight were taking place. The nine-millimeter ammunition had fragmentation tips that disintegrated in their targets instead of passing through and piercing walls, alerting someone outside or in a neighboring room.}

^{Raoul searched for and picked up every expelled cartridge, a few of them taking longer to find than he intended. Even if somehow he didn't locate every one, it wouldn't have been calamitous–he'd worn gloves when he loaded the weapons, taking care that he didn't leave fingerprints on the shells. But without empty cartridges, the investigators wouldn't have firing-pin marks and extraction scratches that could provide ballistics evidence linking Raoul's pistols to the crime scene. For certain, the bullets were so mangled and fragmented that they wouldn't provide ballistics evidence. In addition, Raoul planned to wipe his fingerprints from the pistols and abandon the weapons the moment it was safe to do so. As Mr. Bowie had taught him, survival depended on details.}

^{He removed cash from the bodies. Then he cleaned his prints off the toilet lever and the few other things he'd touched. Leaving the unit, about to lock the door behind him, he heard the History Channel announcer explain that the Communist-era inventor of the AK-47 never received royalties from it.}

^{Chapter 4.}

^{Hearing a barge chug past on the Mississippi, Carl pressed buttons on his cell phone and yet again got a recording that told him to leave a message. He pressed a different set of buttons and got a similar message. He interrupted the transmission and brooded. It had been twenty-four hours since he and Brockman had been in touch. Brockman was supposed to have flown to New Orleans the previous evening. This morning, he was supposed to have reported to the Global Protective Services base here and evaluated the security preparations for the World Trade Organization conference. He would then have spoken with his counterparts in the various government protective services. When he knew the schedules and the routes that various agents would use to escort their clients to the convention center, he was under orders to get in touch with Carl and inform him of the details.}

^{Had Brockman decided that he could no longer tolerate being part of this? Had he fled? Was he being detained for questioning? Because the latter had the more serious implications, Carl was forced to give weight to it. In the worst-case scenario, how long would Brockman resist interrogation? Would he be weak enough to confess his involvement in the deaths of so many operators? Would he tell the authorities that Carl manipulated them into sending as many agents as possible to New Orleans?}

^{Disloyalty was the worst sin.}

^{For a final time, Carl angrily pressed Brockman's numbers on his cell phone.}

^{Chapter 5.}

^{"You're lucky I'm on retainer to Global Protective Services." The doctor was a spectacled fifty-year-old, who'd once been a nurse in a mobile military hospital. She nodded toward Brockman, who lay in his bed, groggy from pain relievers.}

^{"He'll need physical therapy on his knees and his torn rotator cuffs," she told Ali. "Considering all the damage you inflicted, another doctor would have phoned the police."}

^{"Talk to Cavanaugh," Ali said. "He'll explain why it needed to be done this way."}

^{Down the hall, in the exercise room, Brockman's cell phone rang. It wasn't the first time. Several times throughout the interrogation, calls had been attempted, none of which Ali had answered. Most callers had left messages, all of them related to GPS business, wondering why Brockman hadn't reported for work in New Orleans.}

^{Only one caller had not left a message. The phone's display had shown the name William Scagel and a telephone number.}

^{Now, as the phone rang again, Ali left the bedroom and walked to the exercise room.}

^{After six rings, the phone stopped. Ali went to a table, where the cell phone sat next to Brockman's pistol and claw knife. Its display again showed the name William Scagel.}

^{Troubled, he unclipped his own phone from his belt and pressed numbers.}

^{Two rings later, Cavanaugh answered. "I hope this is good news."}

^{"Just a question. Does the name William Scagel mean anything to you?"}

^{"Hell, yes. Scagel was a famous knife maker. Where did his name come up?"}

^{"He's been calling Brockman's cell phone and his home phone. But he doesn't leave a message."}

^{The transmission was silent for a moment. "It's Carl."}

^{"Hang on. Let's find out if he left a message this time." Ali pressed buttons on Brockman's cell phone.}

^{"What's the telephone number on the display?" Cavanaugh's voice asked.}

^{Ali dictated the numbers to him, then listened for a message on Brockman's phone. An electronic hiss indicated that something had in fact been recorded. Leaning against the table, shifting Brockman's weapons aside, Ali waited, hopeful. The hiss was interrupted by an electronic shriek.}

^{The exercise room blew apart.}

^{Chapter 6.}

^{Carl clipped his cell phone onto his belt and put his small radio transmitter into a camera bag he carried. He strolled along the riverfront, nodding to tourists, pretending to admire boats on the Mississippi, although what attracted his attention were more police officers than usual and numerous barricades stacked to the side in preparation for tomorrow's demonstrations. He imagined Brockman–more likely an interrogator–listening to Brockman's phone, hoping to hear a message. But the only message was the trigger signal from Carl's radio transmitter. He reasoned that the claw knife he'd given Brockman wouldn't be far. He imagined the radio signal reaching the miniature detonator in the knife's sheath. The blast from the powerful explosive molded into the sheath would have destroyed everything around it.}

^{Chapter 7.}

^{One instant, the transmission Cavanaugh listened to was alive. The next, it was dead. That word came involuntarily to Cavanaugh's mind. Dead. En route to New Orleans aboard GPS's jet, he felt something inside him drop. Reminding himself that phone communication on an aircraft wasn't reliable, that an electronic glitch might have interrupted the transmission, he stifled his premonition and called Ali's cell phone again, but the only response he got was a computerized voice that told him the number he had called was unavailable.}

^{"Is something wrong?" Jamie asked.}

^{"I'm afraid there is." Cavanaugh hurriedly called GPS headquarters in Manhattan.}

^{The duty officer had already heard from two GPS agents outside Brockman's apartment.}

^{"An explosion?" Tightness took Cavanaugh's breath away. He lowered the phone. "God damn you, Carl."}

^{Chapter 8.}

^{When the Gulfstream landed in New Orleans, a row of emergency vehicles waited, the lights on their roof racks flashing in the darkness. Somber officials with handguns under their jackets formed a protective square as Cavanaugh, Jamie, and Rutherford stepped from the jet into Louisiana's humid air.}

^{"The phone number your man read to you before he was killed has a local area code," a Secret Service agent told Cavanaugh. "William Scagel bought the phone yesterday in St. Charles twenty miles from here."}

^{"Carl probably didn't do it in person. Someone working for him did the honors so the clerk couldn't provide an accurate description."}

^{"The address the buyer gave was bogus."}

^{"What a surprise."}

^{"I'll bet several other phones got purchased in various other stores–by the same person using more fake names and IDs," Rutherford said.}

^{Police officers flanked a van. Accompanied by FBI agents, Cavanaugh, Jamie, and Rutherford scrambled inside. The moment the side door was secured, the driver headed toward an exit gate, cruisers to the front and back.}

^{"We can't assume Carl will keep that phone much longer," Cavanaugh said as they sped onto a freeway. "Is the satellite in position?"}

^{"Ready and willing," an agent answered. "The eyes and ears of the sky are aimed at New Orleans."}

^{"Then do it. "}

^{The agent spoke into a walkie-talkie. "Baker to Butcher, do you copy?"}

^{"Affirmative," a voice replied.}

^{"Commence tracking."}

^{"Tracking engaged."}

^{The agent nodded to Cavanaugh, who pulled out his cell phone and pressed the numbers Ali had dictated to him seconds before he was killed.}

^{The group watched intently, but Cavanaugh was conscious only of the phone pressed against his ear and the sound of ringing at the other end.}

^One.

^Two.

^Three.

^{"He got rid of the phone," Rutherford said. "If anybody does answer, it'll probably be a junkie."}

^{Cavanaugh's heart sped as Carl's voice said, "Hello, Aaron."}

^{The van swayed, veering around car lights on the freeway.}

^{"Good guess, Carl."}

^{"No guessing involved. I know you, old buddy. I can predict what you'll do."}

^{"Same here." Cavanaugh noted that there was something odd about the sound. He heard music and laughter in the background. Carl's voice was muffled and distant. "You were sure I'd call?"}

^{"Unless you were interrogating Gerald Brockman, in which case you'd be a smear across a wall right now."}

^{Acid burned Cavanaugh's throat. He wished he could reach through the phone and–}

^{With effort, he kept his voice steady. "You also blew apart Ali Karim, plus two protectors and a doctor."}

^{"Karim. Good man to work with. Knew his stuff. Sorry to hear he's gone."}

^{"Try to sound more sincere."}

^{"Who were the other . . ." Carl's voice faded, although the music and voices strangely persisted.}

^{"I can barely hear you," Cavanaugh said.}

^{The voice strengthened. "Who were the other protectors?"}

^{Cavanaugh gave their names.}

^{"Didn't know them. They must have been brought aboard after I was fired," Carl's voice said pointedly.}

^{"I told you, I had nothing to do with getting you fired."}

^{Headlights blazing, the van veered down an exit ramp, forcing Cavanaugh to grip the wall for balance.}

^{"But you didn't do anything to prevent it, buddy," Carl said, "and deep in your heart, you know you could have."}

^{"You kept exceeding orders. You were out of control. When Duncan fired you, it was the right thing to do."}

^{"Ah, so finally I'm getting some truth. You admit you could have stuck up for me, but instead you went along with firing me."}

^{"The incident outside the Plaza Hotel wasn't the only time you lost control. Blame me ? How about blaming yourself ?"}

^{"Take some personal responsibility, is that what you're suggesting?"}

^{"Stop what you're doing, that's what I'm suggesting."}

^{"How long did you figure you could keep me talking?" Carl's voice asked.}

^{"As long as it takes to persuade you to stop this."}

^{"Are you triangulating the signal from my cell phone, old pal? Figuring out which microwave stations are relaying my voice?"}

^{"Needs to be done. You know the procedures in a situation like this. Nothing personal."}

^{"That's a laugh. You certainly proved, as far as you're concerned, nothing is ever personal. Cold, Aaron. I never realized how cold you are."}

^{"And you're not? Listen to me, Carl. Stop whatever you're doing."}

^{The van veered around a corner and stopped abruptly, forcing Cavanaugh to grip the wall again. Even before the vehicle was motionless, the agent in charge yanked the side door open, revealing men with rifles silhouetted by lights flashing on emergency vehicles.}

^{"Now why would I want to stop something that took so long to set up?" Carl's voice asked.}

^{Pressing the phone to his ear, Cavanaugh jumped to the pavement and followed agents toward a one-story brick building. The pungent smell of the nearby Mississippi filled his nostrils. "Carl, if it's me you're getting even with, name the place and the time. I'll give you all the security you want. No tricks. One on one. You can show me how much you hate me."}

^{An agent opened a metal door. Bright light spilled out. A huge room was filled with radio equipment, computers, video and audio recorders, and closed-circuit monitors. The screens depicted hundreds of views of the streets around the New Orleans conference center, busloads of police arriving, barricades being set up.}

^{At least two dozen technicians worked the equipment, but as one, they became silent, turning toward Cavanaugh as he entered.}

^{"Hate you, Aaron?" Carl's voice came from speakers next to a monitor.}

^{A technician turned down the volume.}

^{"The reason I'm so pissed at you is I love you, man. Not like I want to bang you. Not that kind of love. But you were the only person I felt close to, and you walked away like I had the plague. Getting even with you? No way. What I'm doing is making a point. I'm proving I'm not out of control anymore. And now that your satellite technicians had their chance to try to find where I am, adios ."}

^{"Carl, wait."}

^{The only sound was the music and the voices.}

^{"Carl, how do we stop this? Tell me what you want. "}

^{No answer.}

^{"Carl!" As the music and voices persisted, Cavanaugh lowered his phone. He had to leave the transmission open in case Carl said anything else. But by leaving it open, he allowed Carl the opportunity to overhear what was being said in the room.}

^{"Clever . . ." Stifling the impulse to curse, he gave the phone to a technician and told him to take it outside.}

^{"Do you have his location?" Rutherford asked a technician.}

^{"The French Quarter. He must have set the phone down and walked away."}

^{"But why did his voice sound distant?"}

^{"Maybe he wasn't speaking directly into the phone."}

^{"The signal's coming from the corner of Bourbon and St. Peter," another technician said.}

^{"Is there a team close to there?" Rutherford asked. "The police must have plenty of officers in the bar district."}

^{A third technician finished speaking into a microphone. "A half-dozen teams converged on that area during the conversation. More teams are on the way. The streets are being blocked."}

^{"One thing bothers me." The first technician pointed toward a monitor that showed a map of the French Quarter and a stationary, pulsing dot.}

^{"Only one thing?" Rutherford asked.}

^{"He never moved while he was talking," the technician said.}

^{Jamie got it first. "Never moved? Why would he stay in one place when he knew we were using satellites to get a fix on his position?"}

^{Chapter 9.}

^{The van stopped on Chartres Street between Jackson Square and St. Louis Cathedral. Protectors converged on the vehicle as Rutherford opened the side door.}

^{Cavanaugh stared out at the glow of streetlights, at numerous tourists passing in the shadowy background, plastic cups of beer in their hands.}

^{"Are you sure you want to do this?" Rutherford asked. "He could be baiting you."}

^{"I'm positive he is trying to bait me."}

^{"Then why are you playing his game?"}

^{"Because it's the only game we have. How many agents are mingling with the crowd?"}

^{"Almost enough that they are the crowd."}

^{Cavanaugh looked at Jamie. "Want to stay here?"}

^{"And miss the excitement?" she answered.}

^{"Let's hope there isn't any excitement."}

^{Flanked by agents, they got out and headed up narrow St. Peter Street. Passing the majestic cathedral and its gardens, approaching the glitter and activity of Bourbon Street, Cavanaugh slowed his pace. The sound of music and partying filled the night. Door-to-door bars and restaurants, most of them open to the street, were crammed with customers.}

^{"If we stick together like this," Cavanaugh told the agents, "we won't be able to surprise him."}

^{"But if we don't stick together," one of them said, "we can't shield you."}

^{At night, Bourbon Street was closed to traffic. The agents scanned the raucous bars and the rowdy crowd in the middle of the street. They switched their attention to the ornate wrought iron of the numerous balconies, many of which were occupied by revelers.}

^{Sweating, Cavanaugh crossed to where a man with a German shepherd stood next to a garbage bin. The dog's owner seemed to be enjoying the music and the enthusiasm of the crowd as were a man and woman on the other side of the bin, and another couple amused by a man dancing in the street. All of them, including the dancer, were part of the team.}

^{The man with the dog told Cavanaugh, "Arnold here is the best in our canine unit. He never fails to locate explosives. So far, the area seems clean." The man indicated the two couples and the dancer. " They have radiation and pathogen detectors. Negative readings."}

^{"Show us what you found," Rutherford said.}

^{The man and woman on the other side of the bin shifted garbage bags away, revealing two cell phones duct-taped together. There was also an apparently mystifying object next to them.}

^{For now, Cavanaugh concentrated on the duct-taped cell phones. "Son of a . . ."}

^{"This is one instance where I think your language is needlessly restrained," Rutherford said.}

^{Cavanaugh took latex gloves from a pocket and put them on, hating the chalky feel of the powder inside them. He crouched, removed his compact flashlight from his belt, and studied the phones taped together. Their ear and mouth areas were positioned against one another.}

^{An agent lowered his phone and said, "One of the phones is still on. Back at headquarters, they hear our voices coming through it."}

^{Cavanaugh looked at the man with the German shepherd. "Have Arnold sniff this again for explosives."}

^{"Happy to."}

^{Then Cavanaugh asked the couples near him, "How about another scan with those detectors?"}

^{They obliged, but the readings on the handheld monitors continued to be negative for radiation and pathogens. They did it so discreetly that the hundreds of tourists who passed them didn't notice.}

^{Cavanaugh picked up the phones, holding them at the bottom where he was less likely to smudge fingerprints. He unclipped his knife from his pants. After studying the way the phones were secured face-to-face, he sliced the duct tape, separating the two.}

^{"The second phone is on, also. It's receiving a signal," Cavanaugh said, pointing toward the lit display screen.}

^{"It would require three phones," Jamie said.}

^{Cavanaugh nodded.}

^{"The one you called," Jamie said. "The one taped to it. And a third phone that Carl used to phone the second one."}

^{Again, Cavanaugh nodded.}

^{"I'm missing something," an agent said. "What are you talking about?"}

^{"Carl assumed I'd eventually call the number for the phone he used to contact Brockman. He knew Brockman's caller ID would keep a record of the number, but even if both Brockman's phones were destroyed in the explosion, the phone company would still have a record."}

^{"Okay, I'm with you so far," the agent said.}

^{"Carl and a companion waited for the call." Jamie pointed toward one of the phones. "Before Carl answered it, he turned on the second phone. Then he used a third phone to call this second one. He put the first and second phones together and used the third phone to relay his voice through the second into the first. While he spoke, a companion taped the phones together so they'd be secure. Then Carl and his companion hid the phones behind these garbage bags and walked away."}

^{The agent nodded. "Because we didn't have information about the third phone, he could talk to you as long as he wanted, without worrying that we'd use a satellite to track him wherever he was talking–probably outside the French Quarter."}

^{"And he's listening to us right now," Cavanaugh said.}

^{Rutherford straightened. Cavanaugh noted with approval that the agents kept their attention where it belonged: on the crowd and the raucous buildings along the street.}

^{"Isn't that right, Carl?" Cavanaugh said into the second phone. "You're listening to us right now."}

^{He didn't get an answer, but a slight electronic hiss told him that the connection was still active. He showed the phone's display to the agent in contact with the communications center.}

^{Noting the incoming number, the agent stepped away from the group so that he wouldn't be heard when he told the communications center the new phone number. They would track its signal.}

^{"Are you there, Carl?" Cavanaugh asked.}

^{Again, he didn't receive a reply.}

^{"I hope you're having fun listening to us."}

^{"What about the other thing he left?" Rutherford asked.}

^{"The knife?" Cavanaugh referred to the apparently mystifying object.}

^{"Yeah. It's one of the meanest-looking blades I've ever seen."}

^{Cavanaugh picked it up. His latex gloves protected him from any dermal poison that Carl might have put on it. "It's called a 'khukri'."}

^{The knife had an impressive ivory handle and a thirteen-inch blade. What made the blade intimidating was that it curved like a sickle. It was designed for chopping, its sweet spot almost anywhere along its curve.}

^{"The Gurkhas use these," Cavanaugh said.}

^{Rutherford nodded. The Gurkhas were a military tribe in Nepal. Their main source of income came from being mercenaries in various armies. They never drew their knives unless they intended to draw blood, and if they didn't wound or kill an enemy, they allegedly felt obligated to draw blood from themselves.}

^{"When an enemy hears the Gurkhas are coming, the sweat starts to flow." Cavanaugh raised the second phone and said, "Carl, you did a fabulous job on this. The engraving on the ivory handle is magnificent. I thought the Michael Price dagger at the farm was fabulous, but the craft on this one is better. Excellent work."}

^{" Fossilized ivory," Carl's voice said from the phone.}

^{Cavanaugh smiled slightly in victory.}

^{"Lance taught us nothing should die in order to be used to make a knife," Carl's voice said.}